


The Weakness of the Socractic Method

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Emotional Baggage, M/M, Post Gauda Prime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon has emo thoughts about Blake. They really should talk to each other, but they're too macho, too Alpha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weakness of the Socractic Method

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Wisdom of Solomon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/191228) by [blakefancier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier). 



> Remix fic! YAY. I hardly ever got to do any of them.

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Over the years I've learned how to... well, not how to manage Blake. Besides being arrogant, that's absurd. You might as well talk about 'managing' a force of nature. I've learned how to live with him. I didn't need to learn how to love him.

When he interrupts me at work, his eyes are wounded. The Socratic method would have me engage him in dialogue, get him talking about something we agree upon, tangle him up in logic until he's abandoned his original stance, whatever it is that has hurt him. But I can see that he did not come to me for debate, but for comfort.

My heart aches seeing his pain. He feels too deeply, and for too many people. It makes him vulnerable in ways I will never be—most of the universe could go hang for all I care.

Blake is desperate to touch me; it's obvious. It's also maddening, because I don't want it like this—I want to hold him too, to tell him reassuring lies, to give his body pleasure, not just accept. But it's not about my desires this time, as he reminds me when I attempt to speak. All right. If he needs silence, I can give him that. How many years was I silent when I should have spoken; shouted when I should have whispered? 

But it hurts to see him suffer. I never liked it; never. There had been times he'd made me so angry I lied to myself and said I wanted to see him hurt, but even then my stomach punished me cruelly for such thoughts. 

So I let him undress me and put me to bed. And then he nearly undoes my resolve by telling me how much it would hurt him if anything happened to me. As if I didn't know that? As if that wasn't the only reason I hadn't taken the easy way out that first horrible year after I went mad and tried to kill him? 

I close my eyes against the nausea and pain. When I can bear it, I open them again and look at Blake. Ah. He's angry at me. I can't help it, Blake. I can't. I try, but sometimes... I remember, too. And I hurt, too. And I'm even worse than you are at discussing my pain. Damn Socrates. What the hell did he know?

Blake's expression changes. He's no less determined, no less... fragile... than before, but he's seeing me as a person, not just a source of animal comfort. And then he proceeds to drive me mad with his hands and his mouth, stroking me where I am most vulnerable... he knows better than to immobilize my hands... they did that. For months. Until he woke up and raged at them, and they freed me. But when he strokes my hands it doesn't alarm me. I trust him and the sensitivity is arousing.

His hands... oh, his hands know me so well. I stand it as long as I can, partly for the delicious agony of delay, and partly for Blake's sake. Then I come.

And Blake holds me tight and burrows against me, using me to shield him from the universe. He trembles and his breathing is ragged, not with arousal, but with restrained grief. I search my limited emotional vocabulary, and find no helpful words, so I soothe him with my touch, stroking and rubbing while he shakes against me. Finally I dare to break the silence. "Tell me, Blake," I murmur.

And he tries. "Children," he says raggedly. "When did we start using children to fight our battles?"

I ask him again, but the moment is lost, and all he can do is huddle against me, shaking with unshed tears. What can you do with a man who possesses the tender heart of a child, but finds himself leading a war—a filthy, no holds barred conflict in which winning hurts him nearly as much as losing? I cradle Blake in my arms, knowing that all my logic and clever repartee is useless.

Damn Socrates.


End file.
